Page 41

“I mention very few galas. They’re repetitive in summary.”

Behind me, the lead technician lifted a hand and pointed toward his headset, silently asking whether I needed the audio turned down near the road case.

I shook my head.

My mother heard movement. “Where are you?”

“At the venue.”

“You sound strange.”

“I have the phone against my shoulder.”

That had been true ten seconds earlier. It remained spiritually relevant.

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

Seven bites of protein bar counted.

“What?”

“A protein bar.”

“That is not food.”

“It came from the food category.”

“Pri.”

“I’m fine.”

The answer was automatic enough to overlap the question she had not yet asked.

My mother went quiet.

I looked down at the declaration page. The unsigned line waited beneath questions answered in tidy boxes.

“You work too much,” she said.

“This is the work.”

“You used to tell me about it.”

My pen rolled toward the edge of the road case. I caught it.

“There’s nothing to tell. Tables. Lights. Dinner. Wealthy people congratulating each other near a dinosaur.”

“That was almost interesting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Your brothers think you don’t call because you’re busy.”